


Shatter

by Ryo_Nightray



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryo_Nightray/pseuds/Ryo_Nightray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know who he was anymore. Bucky, the Winter Soldier, or someone else? He needed answers, and the only man who could give them to him was the man on the bridge, his final target, Steve Rogers.</p><p>~~~</p><p>Steve is visited by Bucky one night whilst recovering in hospital from their fight on the Helicarrier. From there, Bucky attempts to pick up the pieces of his fragmented existence and build a new life; the thought terrifies him, but Steve is there to support him all the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so this is pretty much my first fic on AO3 and the first one I've written for years! I'm not asking for a cookie or anything, but feedback and suggestions would be super helpful :)

He scanned the hospital corridor, hidden from view, quickly assessing the situation. The fluorescent lights were dim and shadows pooled in the far corners, the hallway mostly empty except for a few chairs and a vending machine propped against the walls. It was silent save for the low hum of electricity and the quiet murmur of conversation from the two soldiers guarding the room at the end of the hall.

“Wanna get a coffee?” one of the men said to the other, rolling his stiff shoulders.

“Yeah,” his colleague replied. “Shouldn’t take a second.”

The both turned and walked down the corridor, the slap of their feet echoing loudly against the smooth floor. Their backs were exposed, their guard down – it would take him a less than a heartbeat to cross the distance between them and snuff out their lives.

He tensed, his muscles automatically falling into a solid stance, prepared to spring into action. His flesh hand itched to grasp at the knife concealed under his sleeve, but he forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath and with difficulty he relaxed. There was no need to kill the two soldiers in this situation, even though his training and conditioning hissed at him to do so, to leave no witnesses. No, he wouldn’t do it – the man on the bridge wouldn’t want him to.

That man was why he was here.

The Winter Soldier had never asked questions before. He’d simply been given a mission briefing, and he’d carry it out. There had been nothing more to it.

But after his last assignment, everything had changed. All it took was for his target to say that word – “Bucky” – and a crack had appeared in his clear-cut, numb existence. It was as if a ray of sunlight had broken through the foggy, iced-up window pane he’d looked out from, giving hints of the bright world beyond. The light was blinding, stinging, and it made him want to screw his eyes shut and shut out the pain and fear it brought with it. But another part of him desperately wanted to reach out and feel the heat of the sun on his skin, to know what it was like to feel warm.

They’d wiped him, smoothed away the dent in the Winter Soldier’s pristine conditioning, but after the battle in the Helicarrier…

_“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…”_

_“You’re my friend…”_

_“I’m with you to the end of the line…”_

Remembering that man’s words made him flinch. The fissures had begun to appear again, threatening to shatter his world. He didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and focused on the present. The soldiers had turned around the corner, and without hesitation he slunk forward, his feet silent against the floor as he dashed forward, one with the shadows.

As he moved, he fleetingly caught his reflection in a glass display case. He’d tried his best to conceal his identity – or at least the identity of the Winter Soldier – by wearing a baseball cap to shield his face and gloves on his hands to hide his metal limb, the rest of his civilian attire comprised of jeans and a hooded sweater he’d liberated from an unattended laundry basket. He looked completely different to how he was accustomed to seeing himself; he looked like a stranger

His final target had called him Bucky. The name was uncomfortable and weighty. He’d been to the Captain American exhibit, seen the man who shared his face in the displays, the man who’d been labelled as Bucky. He was finding it increasingly difficult to associate the man from the war footage with the man he was at the present. That name belonged to a dead man, a ghost. If he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, and he wasn’t Bucky, who was he?

He was hoping that his final target, Captain America- no, Steve Rogers, could tell him.

He reached the door, grasped the doorknob, and with a tiny pause, twisted it and entered the room.

It was dark in here, the only light coming through a crack between the curtains, but his night vision was sharp enough to see clearly. He caught a glint of metal near the floor, Captain America’s iconic shield lying near the bed in the centre of the room. He edged closer – the man was there, asleep.

He couldn’t supress the way his breath caught in his throat as he stared at him. That face was familiar, every feature, every hair on his head – he _knew_ that face. He’d seen it a dozen times before, and not just from files for his mission briefing or from their fights a few days ago. He almost snarled in frustration – the memories hovered at the surface of his mind, but darted out of reach before he could grab them.

He took a step closer, examining the man. Roger’s chest rose and fell as he breathed softly, a faint crease between his brows as he frowned in his sleep.

…it would be easy to kill him right now.

The thought came unbidden into his head. But as soon as it did, a sudden cold swamped him and he fell back into that tense stance. His final target was a foot in front of him, asleep and oblivious to his presence. He’d failed to kill him twice. He’d never failed to eliminate a target before. He felt a low growl reverberate in his chest. He was angry at himself for his failure, his incompetence. But more than anything, he was afraid of what they’d do to him when they learned of it. He had to finish the job. Wrap his hands around his throat, squeeze the oxygen out of him, let his cold metal skin burn against his flesh-

He stopped himself, realising his hands were outstretched to grasp Roger’s neck. He pulled away sharply, panting and shaking. He stifled a whimper as he stared with horror and awe at his trembling hands. He never lost his composure.

Spasms of white-hot pain flared in his brain. He clutched at his head, tearing at his scalp, clenching his teeth to stop his scream from escaping. He battled with his self, his conditioning at war with his free will. He had to kill him…but he couldn’t! He didn’t want to!

After what seemed like an eternity, the pain subsided and he almost collapsed from exhaustion, clasping a hand to his mouth and his eyes wide.

“Bucky?”

The whisper makes his head snap up and he leapt backwards, instinctively reaching for his knife, chest heaving.

Rogers is awake, slowly and cautiously pulling himself up into a sitting position, eyes fixed on him. “Bucky” he breathes again, this time his voice edged with a mix of surprise and elation.

He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t nod, because he isn’t Bucky; but he can’t shake his head either, because maybe he used to be Bucky. He scowls – it was all so confusing.

Instead, he gingerly sheathes his knife and takes a furtive step forward, much in the same way as an animal testing that it was safe to approach a human.

“Bucky,” Rogers says again, then laughs softly and shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. Just when I was planning on searching for you, you go and find me first.” He reaches a hand towards him then pulls it back, attentive to his visitor’s obvious nerves.

Bucky – yes, he might as well call himself that for the time being – takes another step forward, signalling that it was OK for Rogers to touch him. Cautiously, Rogers does so, exhaling deeply, his eyes glancing over him rapidly as if trying to drink in every detail. “So it’s not a dream,” he murmurs. After a pause, he softly and gently asks “do you know who I am?”

Bucky gives a sharp, curt nod. He licks his lips and rasps “Steve.” The dry, harshness of his voice surprises even him.

Steve beams, a wide smile creeping across his face. “Yeah, Buck. It’s me, Steve.”

“Steve” Bucky repeats, feeling the name roll of his tongue. The word is familiar, far more familiar than the name that was apparently his.

Bucky examines Steve, eyes glancing to the bandage and gauze on his cheek. Very tentatively, he reached forward and lightly presses his index finger to it. “Hurts?” he asks, but the flatness of his voice makes it seem like a statement instead of a question.

“Nah,” Steve says with a shake of the head, reassuring him. “I’ve had worse.” A smile ghosts across his lips. “Think I was beat up in every back alley in Brooklyn.”

“Didn’t know when to back down from a fight” Bucky answers, then blinks in alarm. Where had that come from? How did he know that?

Steve chuckles softly again. “Yeah. I still don’t.” His eyes became distant. “You’d always yell at me about it. You wondered how I kept getting into trouble.” He paused again, a tiny smile twitching in the corners of his lips. “But somehow you’d always manage to find me – I figured you checked every alley just in case you saw me having the crap kicked out of me.”

Bucky said nothing. Those were Steve’s memories, not his. No, only a few, very select memories replayed over and over in his head.

He hung his head. “Fell” he whispered so quietly it was barely detectable.

Steve’s eyes blossomed with pain. He glanced aside, jaw set tight. “I know,” he answered, his voice a croak. “I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m…I’m so sorry. I should have searched harder. I should have-” his voice broke, and he stopped and took a deep breath.

Bucky shook his head. “Don’t” he said flatly, irritated at how his monotonous voice failed to get across the sympathy that stirred in his chest.

Steve mustered a smile, but his eyes were still clearly distressed. He reached out and clasped a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, the other man flinching at the action put not wanting to squirm away. “It’s gonna be okay, Buck” Steve said sincerely, his earnest, blue eyes drilling into Bucky’s. Again, Bucky felt his heart rate speed up at the direct eye contact, but he forced himself to stare back.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again,” Steve continued, a faint growl in his tone. “You’re safe now.”

“Why?” Bucky asked.

Steve grinned again, a hint of colour in his cheeks. “Because you’re my friend” he answered, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

Bucky hesitated. “Friend?” he whispered. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t need friends. Feelings of affection and care were signs of weakness, something to be stamped out. The HYDRA scientists had long since removed any such pointless emotions, leaving only cold and decisive logic.

…then why did his chest feel tight? Why did the word “friend” make his breath snag in his throat? Why was the way Steve was looking at him make him feel weak, exposed, vulnerable? He should have hated feeling this way, should have struggled against it and plunged back into the reassuring depths of his conditioning.

Maybe, he realised, it was because he had nothing else in life. With HYDRA seemingly collapsed, there were no more orders left to carry out and no one to give him orders. He was lost, left hanging in the void. Even coming here to the hospital, out of his own free will, had required a lot of time, energy and courage.

Free will…what was that? He’d almost forgotten what it was like to do things because he _wanted_ to, not because he was told to do. It was terrifying, but oddly exhilarating, like standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea what waited at the bottom.

That was why he’d sought out Steve. If anyone could give him an idea of what might await him, what he was able to do next, he was the one. He was the one, tiny fragment of his past, of his identity, that he had managed to cling to.

Bucky sat for a while, struggling and huffing with annoyance as he tried to formulate his thoughts and uncertain feelings into coherent words. “Steve?” he began.

“Yeah?” Steve said, listening patiently and attentively as he scooted a little closer.

Bucky licked his lips, then exhaled shakily. “Need help. Confused.” He sighed again, frustrated by his fragmented speech but satisfied that he was able to voice his thoughts. “Need to work out…who I am.”

“Sure” Steve nodded, looking concerned but trying his best to hide it.

“Not Bucky,” he continued, pointing to himself. “But…still Bucky. Make sense?”

Steve paused for a while in thought. “You mean…what you’re trying to say is, you’re not the old Bucky I knew, but you’re still you.”

“Hmm” Bucky nodded.

“I understand,” Steve said with a smile – although it looked a little sad, he still seemed happy. “I’m not gonna force you to try and be the person you used to be.”

“Good” Bucky sighed, relief flooding his veins. That was a new feeling.

A sudden sound from outside made Bucky’s head snap up, his muscles taut and his senses strained. A pair of footsteps, coming closer. The guards must be returning.

“Hide!” Steve hissed.

Bucky was already moving, dropping silently and rolling underneath Steve’s bed.

Bucky heard the squeak of the door opening, nothing but one of the soldiers’ soft breathing for a few seconds, before the door was closed with a dull click again. Bucky waited a few moments before emerging from his hiding place.

He glanced at Steve who was feigning sleep. His eyes then snapped open and he turned to face Bucky.

“You need to leave,” Steve told him. “God knows how bad things will be if they find you here.”

Bucky nodded, understanding the situation. “What now?”

“You got some place safe to stay for tonight?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded again. He’d never used the safehouse HYDRA had provided for him – something he was proud of – but he wasn’t staying there in case the place was still under observation or had been found by agents out looking for the Winter Soldier. Instead, he’d found a crummy, deserted basement near the sewers. It was filthy there, but he’d waited between missions in worst places before.

“Okay, good,” Steve replied. “I’m being discharged tomorrow. My place is still bugged and hasn’t been cleared up since…” he let the words hang in the air, knowing full well that Bucky knew what he meant. “Well, that place isn’t safe. My friend Sam said he’d let me stay at his for a bit till everything blows over, so I’ll be there.”

Steve told him the address, and Bucky memorised it instantly.

“Come round there around 1500 hours,” Steve continued. “Lay low and don’t be seen till I call out for you. Got that?”

Bucky gave a quick nod, then made for the window. He pushed aside the curtains and opened it, glancing outside. There was a drop of about ten feet down to the ground, the area in shadow away from the streetlamps – it seemed a viable escape route.

He made to leap out the window, but hesitated and turned to face Steve. Steve was staring back at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, looking at him with a mix of concern and a sad sense of longing. He smiled, making to say something then changing his mind.

“G-Goodbye” Bucky mumbled, the words garbled and foreign, then leapt out of the window and stalked away into the night.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely people who commented, left a kudos...heck, even read this chapter! :) Here's the second part - again, feedback and suggestions are very welcome

“Hey, Steve, have you seen my keys?”

“Hmm?” Steve replied absent-mindedly, staring out of the window from where he sat on the couch.

“My keys,” Sam repeated with a soft sigh. “You seen them?”

“Maybe” Steve answered, still only half-listening, his eyes distant and lost in thought.

Sam walked up to him and snapped his fingers in front of his face, startling the other man. “Hey, Earth to Steve.” Sam. “You in there?”

“Sorry,” Steve replied sheepishly. “I was just thinking. And you left your keys by the fruit bowl.”

Sam retrieved them and then returned to his friend’s side. “Steve,” he said seriously, maintaining a calm but firm tone as he loosely crossed his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing” Steve replied quickly – too quickly – as he feigned innocence.

Sam sighed wearily again. “Come on, man, you can tell me.” Sam paused, tilting his head to one side slightly. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

There was no need to mention any names; it was obvious who he was referring to. Steve closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead – he’d been unable to get back to sleep since Bucky had visited him last night.

His breath got caught in his lungs at the memory. Had it really happened? A part of him was still convinced it was a dream. If Bucky kept his promise (and Steve was desperately praying that Bucky wouldn’t have second thoughts) and turned up today, only then would he be convinced. It had seemed too good to be true.

He felt a warm glow in his stomach as he replayed the night’s events. Bucky had been there, and he hadn’t (at least to his knowledge) tried to kill him. He’d sat beside him and actually _talked_ with him. That was a huge sign of improvement, right? In their previous encounters, there had been little to no trace of anything resembling Bucky – only the Winter Soldier, cold, efficient and deadly. A wicked knife grasped tightly by his cruel abusers who thought themselves gods; a weapon used to twist and rend fate.

But last night…sure, he’d clearly been uncertain and agitated, restless and edgy as if an electrical current was racing through him. He had continually seemed to be struggling himself, like a tossed coin that could land on either side of his personality. Nevertheless, Steve remembered seeing a tiny spark of life in his otherwise bleak eyes. He hadn’t imagined it – he _knew_ he hadn’t.

Besides, he’d come to visit him out of his own free will. Steve’s chest tightened with overwhelming sympathy and anger – HYDRA had erased any sense of autonomy from him, reduced him to a mere tool. The fact that he’d been able to do something like that was incredible, especially since he’d been ordered to kill him on the Helicarrier just a few days ago.

Had it only been a few days? His world had been flipped upside down and pulled inside-out in under a week, leaving him more confused than ever.

Sam clapped a hand to Steve’s shoulder, snapping him out of his daze.

“Look, you just got out the hospital,” his friend said gently, a hint of concern in his tone. “I know you wanna find him, I can understand that. But super-soldier or not, you need to rest up. Not just physically, but emotionally – you’ve had a pretty tough week. You wanna be at full strength when we start searching for him, right?”

“Right” Steve agreed. His stomach churned – he hadn’t told Sam about meeting Bucky.

Guilt washed over him. It wasn’t fair, not telling him this vital piece of information, not when he’d fought alongside him as if they were long-time comrades instead of meeting him on a morning jog a few days ago. He’d even be kind enough to let him stay at his home for a while, and as much as Steve had protested otherwise, Sam hadn’t given in. Steve glanced at the two cardboard boxes and his Captain America shield near the door, the boxes full of a few things he’d managed to salvage from his worse-for-wear apartment. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sam – because he most certainly did – but it was more a case of he didn’t know how to explain things properly. He hadn’t made sense of everything yet himself.

Sam narrowed his eyes and peered at him. “Steve,” he said knowingly. “You’re not telling me something.”

“What?” Steve said with a laugh. “Relax, I’m fine.” He flinched inwardly. Natasha was right: he was a terrible liar. That was something he’d have to work on.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him, unconvinced.

“Look,” Steve said, getting to his feet. “I’m _fine_. Honestly. What do I need to do to persuade you?”

Sam sighed again, seeming even more tired. “Okay, man, whatever you say. I’ll be back at 5, ok? You need me, you call me.”

“Will do.”

“Just stay here, and don’t cause any trouble.”

Steve stifled a bitter laugh. Easier said than done.

Once Sam had shut the front door behind him, Steve was alert, his eyes immediately flicking to the clock on the wall that he’d been restlessly checking about every 30 seconds. It was a minute past three. Steve swallowed nervously – Bucky might already be here.

He cautiously moved to the back entrance, figuring that Bucky was most likely to be there due to the nearby heavy foliage and that the rears of the houses faced away from the main street. He cracked the door open and scanned the area outside. “Bucky?” he called softly.

He caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He twisted round sharply and automatically stepped back, about to raise his arms to shield an attack. The figure standing there leapt back too, his arm a blur of movement as he quickly unsheathed a blade. Steve scrutinised him for a second, relief flooding through him when he realised it was Bucky.

“Bucky, it’s me” Steve said quickly, hands raised in surrender, before Bucky could make a move.

Bucky jerked to a stop as if he was a machine that had had it’s plug suddenly ripped out. Eyes wild, he swiftly glanced over Steve, assessing him.

“Bucky,” Steve tried again, this time slower and trying to sound as soothing as he could. “Put down the knife.” He smiled, half to give a sense of reassurance, half because he was overjoyed to see his friend again. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Battle reflexes – puts you on edge.”

Hesitantly, Bucky lowered the knife. “S-Steve?” he said.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, taking a step forward, heart hammering against his chest. “Remember we talked last night?”

Bucky’s eyes looked blank for a moment, then he slowly looked up, a light flickering on his mind.

“Hmm” he agreed, this time sounding more certain. He paused, then dropped the blade to the grass.

Steve stooped down, making slow and obvious movements so as not to startle Bucky, and picked up the blade. Bucky made a small disgruntled sound and made to step forward, but Steve shook his head.

“No, Bucky,” he said firmly, but not raising his voice. “You don’t need it. You’re safe here.”

A small frown creased Bucky’s brow, and for a second Steve’s blood went cold when a familiar, numb and silently furious glaze covered his eyes. But the moment passed in a heartbeat, and Bucky gave a tiny nod.

Steve exhaled the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. An awkward, lengthy stretch of silence passed between them. “You, uh,” Steve began. “Wanna come inside?”

Bucky eyed the house warily.

“It’s safe, I promise” Steve reassured him.

“I know,” Bucky answered flatly. “Checked the perimeter myself.”

“Okay,” Steve said after a beat of hesitation. He held the door open and motioned for Bucky to step inside. Bucky slowly walked forward, shoulders noticeably tense and eyes darting about frantically. Once inside, Steve gently shut the door behind him.

Bucky stood near the edge of the room, still scanning the place, head cocked to one side to listen for noises. Steve felt a pang of sympathy – the poor guy was so nervous and wired that a pin dropping would cause him to spring into action.

“Why don’t you come sit down?” Steve suggested. Bucky did nothing but look back at him, eyes averted away from his own. Instead, Steve walked towards the front room, Bucky cautiously trailing after him. Once they entered the room, Bucky again didn’t sit down until Steve did. Steve felt a flash of worry: it seemed Bucky needed motivation to perform simple tasks, and he copied Steve as if he wasn’t allowed to do things unless Steve did it.

Steve clenched his fists and struggled to fight back the wave of anger that rolled inside him. The old Bucky he knew had never been this indecisive and submissive. He’d be effortlessly confident in his actions and words, his own fierce impulses driving him without others telling him what to do. Those HYDRA bastards had stripped away something he had admired so much in Bucky; how much more had they taken from him?

Bucky glanced at Steve, then quickly looked down at his feet. Steve leaned in (but not too close), hands clasped and resting on his knees, trying his hardest to come across as relaxed when he was anything but. Bucky perched on the edge of the seat.

“I, uh,” Steve began uncertainly. “How are you?” He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of his question. It was clear Bucky wasn’t doing well at all. His beard had grown thicker and his hair was a tangled, matted mess, his clothes and skin filthy. He looked starved, his cheeks hollow and his clothes seeming too bulky for his frame.

He’d never seen him look so bad, not even after he’d rescued him from the POW camp in Austria. A few days ago, when the Winter Soldier was in dominance over him, he’d looked muscular and sturdy, terrifyingly strong. Now, he looked like he could crumble at any moment. What had happened to him since HYDRA and SHIELD had collapsed? A flurry of questions swirled around in his head.

Bucky didn’t answer, so Steve pressed on. “Are you hungry?”

Bucky gave a rigid shake of the head. “Don’t eat.”

“What?”

“Don’t eat,” Bucky repeated, still staring at the floor as if it would open up and swallow him. “Don’t need to.”

Steve smothered another flash of fury. The sick bastards hadn’t even fed him between the periods of cyro freeze.

“Please,” Steve pleaded. “Try and eat something.”

Bucky gave a stubborn snarl in the back of his throat, his lips twisting as if tasting something foul, before he exhaled sharply and gave a timid nod.

“Okay” Steve said brightly, pleased that he’d managed to persuade him. He moved towards the kitchen, keeping his head angled slightly so he could still keep an eye on him. He glanced over the cupboards. What to feed him? He of course knew all the kinds of food Bucky used to like, but there was no guarantee he’d like them anymore, or be willing to eat them. Maybe something plain to start off with?

He returned a few moments later with a plate of buttered bread and a glass of water. He felt cruel giving Bucky something so bland, but if he could try and eat just a little bit, it would be better than nothing.

He carefully set the plate and glass on the coffee table in front of him. Bucky cautiously leaned closer, picking up a piece of bread as if it would burn his fingers. He glanced across at Steve, who smiled at him encouragingly. Bucky swallowed thickly, then nibbled the edge of the bread slice. He chewed it reluctantly, his mouth a grimace, but he gulped it and took another bite.

Steve sighed in relief, grinning. It was a start. He didn’t want to force Bucky to do something he didn’t want, but in this situation, he clearly needed nourishment, and if he didn’t get any soon he would be in dire need of medical attention.

Bucky ate half a slice before setting it down and nudging the plate away from him with a shake of the head.

“It’s okay,” Steve answered. “You don’t have to eat anymore if you don’t want to.”

Bucky reached out to grasp the glass in front of him, but Steve realised too late that he was using his left hand, and before he could react Bucky’s powerful metal fingers smashed the glass to pieces, water flying in all directions.

The crash of glass made Bucky leap to his feet and somersault off the back of the couch, grabbing the closest thing to him – Steve’s shield. He placed it on his arm and whirled around, trying to spot invisible foes.

“Bucky, no!” Steve shouted, reaching forward.

Bucky bashed the shield in his direction, trying to fend him off, but Steve caught it by the rim and pushed back, his enhanced strength stopping the shield’s momentum. Bucky try to shove back harder, his arm shaking with the effort, but he was too emotionally drained and weak from lack of food and sleep to fight back properly. However, Steve wasn’t in peak condition himself, and he grit his teeth against the pain from the bullet wounds that had yet to completely recover.

Bucky lashed out with his free hand, Steve blocking the attack. Steve then hooked his leg round Bucky’s causing him to lose his footing and stagger over. Before Bucky could retaliate, Steve wrenched the shield from him and quickly pinned the other man to the floor by the shoulders. Bucky’s eyes were wide open, manic and yet dead at the same time, and his breathing was shallow.

“Bucky, stop!” Steve yelled. When that had no effect, Steve grimaced and commanded, “Stand down, soldier!”

Bucky stopped squirming, limbs turning heavy and limp like a puppet with cut strings. Steve panted, not through physically exhaustion but mental. He pulled away and sat up, looking down at Bucky and feeling his heart constrict. “I’m sorry, Buck.” He rubbed his face wearily. “Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have got you a glass. Should have used a plastic one.”

Bucky stared back and bit his lower lip. “Not your fault” he whispered.

Steve smiled sadly, getting to his feet and offering Bucky a hand to pull him up. Bucky reached his hand out but quickly withdrew it, standing upright by himself. Steve pushed away the tiny flicker of hurt at Bucky rejecting his assistance.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

“Hmm” Bucky answered. He closed his eyes and sighed, about to say something then snapping his mouth shut again. He licked his lips and tried again. “I don’t have to stay here. Too much trouble.”

“No,” Steve protested, taking a step closer. He took a deep breath before continuing earnestly. “We’ll get through this, Buck. You were always there for me. I always felt like I was such a huge burden on you, but no matter what you helped me out. You had my back. Now, it’s my turn to repay you. It’s the very least I can do, Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyelids flickered before he glanced down again. He paused before saying “Just have to shine my shoes.”

Steve frowned. “Huh?”

“You stayed at my place,” Bucky explained, frowning in concentration. “After your mom passed away. I said you could stay with me. Didn’t have to do much ‘cept shine my shoes and help out round the place a little.”

Steve’s heart jolted. For a moment, Bucky’s Brooklyn accent surfaced before his words returned to the usual monotonous tone. It was brief, but it had happened nonetheless. And he had remembered something else, something from decades ago.

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly with a smile.  “I-”

Bucky’s head suddenly jerked up, eyes widening. Steve heard footsteps approaching from outside, a rattle of metal, and the front creaking open.

“Just came back to get something, Steve,” Sam said as he crossed the threshold. “I-”

Bucky dashed forward, metal arm outstretched.

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so that was chapter one. Comment and such if you want a second chapter :)


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